


Why Must You Speak Like That

by Dark_Star_Core



Series: The Romantic Exploits of Jon Snow, Resident Dom, and Tormund Giantsbane, Resident Sub [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Brienne is done with everything, Consensual Sex, Drinking., Fights, I think I got feelings in my porn, I'm Sorry, Jealousy, Jon has ideas., Love, M/M, Married Couple, No Beta, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rimming, Top Jon Snow, What Have I Done, Worship, doing something about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-19 12:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19356862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Star_Core/pseuds/Dark_Star_Core
Summary: The relationship of Jon and Tormund has a few kinks thrown into it because of Brienne, and it's ruining what they had together. Jon decides to remind Tormund who he belongs to. Tormund is completely on board.





	1. The Maiden of Many Affections

It was all Brienne’s fault. 

Well, not really. Jon knew she didn't wish for any of the attention that was lavished upon her. And besides, he couldn't really get mad at her. He owed her a major debt, after all, for bringing his sister to Castle Black safely and continuing to lend the Starks her sword. But really, this had gone to far. 

He had been happily married to Tormund Giantsbane for years now, and had been responsible for some major accomplishments for the Free Folk. He had gotten them over the wall, without any losses from either party, died, come back to life, and retaken Winterfell from the Boltons. And Tormund had been by his side the entire time, grounding him, supporting him, loving him.

If this was life, Jon had decided, then he never wanted to lose it again. 

And then Tormund went and found Brienne to gush over instead. 

In some ways, Jon could understand. Brienne was an impressive woman, with so many qualifications and acts of honor under her belt that he couldn't understand how she hadn't been knighted already. Furthermore, she was one of the few people capable of beating Tormund in a straight fight, and he loved to gush about the people he lost to in fights. 

But really, she was all Tormund talked about now. When they were drinking and she walked by, he'd grab Jon by the shoulder and lean down to whisper conspiratorially into Jon’s ear, in a voice that everyone could totally hear, “Look at her, Little Crow, isn't she amazing?! Oh, I bet her children would be big and strong and powerful, just like her,” before going back to his ale and leaving Jon to sit in his own misery as Brienne shot the two of them a look that could make a dragon slink away from it. 

It wasn't much better in their rooms. They never were able to have some time alone together anymore. Jon would always lie awake at night, staring at the cold grey wood of the door, as Tormund sauntered drunkenly around the warmly lit grounds, trying to catch the eye of Brienne. 

This entire mess was just getting out of hand, but Jon never could go and confront Tormund directly about it. He had his suspicions that he was being abandoned for Brienne, but that's all they were. Suspicions. What if, by confronting Tormund, he confirmed his own worst fears? He didn't want to face the possibility. 

Besides, his suspicions were incredibly strong himself. The last person to beat Tormund in combat before Brienne had been Jon himself. It had been long, and hard, and his face was caked in a running layer of mud and grime and blood that wasn't entirely Tormund’s, but he had emerged victorious from the struggle. Tormund had found him only a couple nights later, and had taken him to his own tent. 

They fucked for the first time that night, and it was everything Jon had imagined for as long as he's known the man who had pinned him down that first time. The sweet thrusting of his hips, Tormund's mouth whispering the most arousing things into his ear, and the perfect feeling of abyss claiming him, much as Death would feel later, but this was so much sweeter. And the things Tormund would say to him, small and sweet promises of love and lust that made Jon ever so slightly weak in the knees. 

They married before the first heart tree they came across, just two days later. He still had the bone ring from the occasion. It was a tradition of the Free Folk to give your consort a ring made from the bones of one's enemies, and they usually took weeks, if not months, to make. 

Would the same course of action happen between Tormund and Brienne? It was hard to say. He continued to make lewd remarks her way, and she continued to threaten his well-being, but that didn't prove anything. They could very well be fucking all those nights that Tormund spends away from him. He may have even crafted her a bone ring from the Bolton corpses outside Winterfell… no. He wouldn't have. If there was one thing Tormund doesn't do, it's go behind the ones he loves.

Is Jon one of those people that Tormund loves anymore? He doesn't really know. 

Lost in thought, he passed Brienne in the courtyard, with her squire -Podrick, he'd have to remember- drilling him on his stances. So far, he was a complete lost cause. Jon felt bad for him, in a way. He was a good kid, with a good heart, but, at the same time, it is kind of funny watching him get laid on his back over and over again by the Lady of Tarth. 

Brienne reached down and hauled up a red-faced Podrick and gently, but firmly pats him down to get the dust off of his armor. She was busy admonishing him on some sword technique that he had failed to execute to her liking when she noticed Jon passing by to the Great Hall, where he was hoping to find Tormund. 

“Your Grace!” The call stopes Jon in his tracks, and he fixed a smile on his face and turned to greet the warrior. “Good afternoon Lady Brienne, Podrick. Is there anything I could do for you?”

Brienne shuffled her feet a little, before fixing Jon with a steady gaze. “I would request that you speak to your Wildling friend about his conduct. Last night he attempted to force himself upon me in a way that was completely unacceptable, and I'd like you to step in and resolve this quickly before I kill him myself.” She continued on her dissertation on Tormund’s behavior, completely oblivious to the way Jon's blood froze solid. His arms suddenly felt a thousand pounds heavier, and his chest constricted around his heart, like the knives were sliding back into his soul. With great effort, he tore his gaze away from the creeping void of his thoughts and mumbled something about how he'd talk to Tormund before dashing away to find the Wildling, his heart pounding and convulsing, his thoughts a cavalcade of _nonononononowhyhewouldn'tnoheisnotlikethat._

As lost in thought as he was, he didn't see that he had entered the Great Hall until he collided with the rush of soldiers running for the gates. 

Jon, disoriented and lost, blindly grabbed for one of the men - Andy, he believed - and asked, “where is everyone going? What's happened?”

“There's a fight brewing between a Wildling and a soldier! Haven't you heard, your Grace?”

Jon inhaled, attempted to steady his breaking heart, and followed the soldiers to see what sort of fight had broken out, and also to call a healer in case one of them ended the fight on the edge of death. They needed all the men they could get for the night to come, and he couldn't lose someone to something so trivial.


	2. A Giant, a Wolf, and the Drink Between Them.

Jon shouldered his way through the masses of northmen and Wildlings alike, struggling not to breathe in the omnipresent smell of sheep dung and unwashed bodies to get to the front of the crowd. What he saw in the fight didn't surprise him: Tormund, covered in mud and dirt, his fiery red hair matted with clumps of dirt, was facing off with another Wildling, equally as dirty and wild as Giantsbane. They were in the midst of circling each other like wolves, watching, opening and closing their fists repeatedly, each man waiting for the other to fuck up, just once, so that he could lunge forward and grab at the other. 

Jon leaned over to the man next to him. “What's happening here?”

The man looked down at him, still smiling with sharpened teeth on full display. “Giantsbane’s fighting for a woman! He's ‘defending the honor of the lass,’ so he said.” He went on and on, detailing exactly what the other man had said to make Giantsbane so angry, but Jon wasn't listening anymore. The roaring in his ears made it difficult to pay much attention, and everything he looked at seemed to be tinted in a red glow, especially his husband, who was surrounded with an aura of blood that filled Jon with a sort of manic anger he hadn't felt since he charged Ramsay Bolton just a month prior. But while he had eventually come out of that past rage, largely thanks to Sansa and Tormund comforting him, as he looked upon the redhead, fighting for a woman who wanted him to leave her alone, leaving the man he had married to see someone else, simply because she could possibly bear him children, he found himself unwilling to stifle the howling rage that built up. 

Lost in his anger, he didn't notice the roar of the crowd until the man on his left shoved into him, sending him crashing to the dirt. He stumbled to his feet, coughing as he breathed in the dirt, and he saw Tormund coming towards him, a wide and savage grin on his face, the other Wildling man keeled over in the dirt, moaning in pain and clutching his chest. He ran towards Jon and hauled him up to his feet with one hand, leaned in close, and whispered in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “have you seen the big woman anywhere?!” 

And that was it. The rage inside Jon, already close to boiling over, erupted from his heart and filled every limb in his body. He wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and whack the man in front of him with it. He wanted to drag Tormund’s lifeless body to their chambers, tie him down, and remind him who he belonged to, to dispel these notions of “seeing someone else” from his brain. 

As he thought about it, an idea penetrated his mind, and grew and grew and grew. As it grew, he found himself in favor of the idea, and a cruel and wolfish smile grew over his face, showing teeth that looked more like canines than they did minutes before. 

“Little Crow?” Tormund had noticed the change, but he was still going forward with this idea of his. Jon decides to move forward with his plan. 

“I have, and, as a matter of fact, she's told me that she wanted to see you tonight. She didn't want me to share, but you seem so eager, I just couldn't wait.” By the time he'd finished, Tormund was already walking towards the Great Hall. Jon sighed. Really, why did he think it would be hard to convince the man driven almost exclusively by lust?

“Tormund!” With a great sigh, Tormund slowed and turned to face him. Jon exhaled. “She said she wanted to see you tonight to share some drinks in the Hall. Meanwhile, go about your day. I will see you later tonight.” Tormund gave a quick and jerky nod, his face positively beaming with excitement, before stumbling quickly off to find other Wildlings, possibly to brag. Jon, meanwhile, set off to find Brienne. He needed some help from her. 

He found her training with Podrick some more, although “training” may be the right word. Clearly, more time had not helped him become better at fighting. Brienne saw Jon trudging towards her, and put up her sword, instructing Pod to do the same. “Your Grace.”

“Lady Brienne.” Jon curtly inclined his head. “I'd like to speak to you. About Giantsbane.” Brienne stiffened almost imperceptibly, and relaxed just as imperceptibly when Jon continued. “I may have a plan to help rid you of having to deal with him, but I require your help, as well as your limitless patience.” With a small nod and brief apology towards Podrick, he led Brienne off, explaining the entire situation: the extent of his and Tormund's relationship, the entire plan of his, and her role in it. He secured her approval and agreement, and went back to being King for the day. 

When evening rolled around, Jon made his way around, clearing out the Hall to put his plan into motion. He ignored the annoyed grumbling or vaguely apologized to the louder complaints, shoving and pushing for people to leave and go do something else. When the hall was empty, save for him, Tormund sauntered in, clearly drunk. Jon mentally sighed. This wouldn't be very difficult. 

“Where's the big woman?” The words were kind of slurred, and Jon had to consciously not roll his eyes at Tormund’s drunken state. 

At that, a side door opened, and a clearly uncomfortable Brienne walked into the room. Her face was red, and she was clearly struggling not to run from the room, but she put on a smile, and moved to sit next to Tormund. At the sight of her, the redhead took another quick swig of the horseshit that he called a drink, and turned his flask over, a sign that the flask was empty. 

Jon quickly rushed to grab his attention, pointing him over to the casket of ale that he and Brienne had brought up for this very moment. It was the strongest stuff they had, and Jon’s nose wrinkled at the smell that was permeating the air. Tormund left his flask behind to stare at Brienne, ignoring the casket, and Jon grabbed the flask and rushed to fill it with the ale. 

“Brienne! What a pleasure to see you here! Join us, join us!” Tormund reached blindly for the flask, already forgetting that it was empty. Jon, thankfully, had already gotten the flask filled with the strong ale and gave it to the redhead’s outstretched hand, which closed around the opening and brought it back to his mouth, where he took a drink, the drink running through his beard, staining the perfect red with drops of brown. 

Brienne, silently cursing Jon for putting her into this mess, took a seat next to the man, only for him to throw his arm around her shoulders and pull her closer. Wanting to resist, but understanding her need to play the part, she let herself be pulled along, meeting Jon’s smoldering gaze with an apologetic look of her own. 

Tormund kept drinking, large rivers of brown marking his red beard, until the flask was empty once again, at which point Jon deftly plucked it from his hands and went to fill it up again and return it to him, at which point he'd go right back to drinking. Meanwhile his hands would run through Brienne's hair, over her armor and face, though they never went anywhere too inappropriate, for which Brienne silently thanked the gods. As he drank, his voice slurred more and his eyes dropped, until he was snoring against Brienne's shoulder, the flask falling from his limp grip to spill onto the stone below. 

Brienne gingerly extracted herself from Tormund and gently laid him to rest in the wood bench. Jon came over to stare down at him. 

“I'll be honest, your Grace, I did not think it would be that easy.” Jon nodded at that. “He was drinking before this, and the ale didn't exactly hurt.” He turned to face the Lady of Tarth. 

“My lady, I would like to extend my thanks for your part in this plan, as well as my sincerest apologies for all you have endured from my husband. I can assure you, it will not happen again.” He took a deep breath, and let it out, his shoulders slumping a little in relief. “I just have one more request for you, my lady.”

“What is it, your Grace?”

Jon nodded at the snoring giant below them. “Help me take him to my chambers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to underplay Tormund's behavior towards Brienne, because I'm not okay with people forcing themselves on those who clearly want nothing to do with them. 
> 
> We're getting to the sexy times now.


	3. Of New Comforts and Old Loves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear in mind that this is the second time I've ever written smut, and the first time I've written smut so detailed, so... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I tried.

Tormund comes back to himself, slowly. His head felt like it was full of fleece, and his eyes were droopy, at first. As the fleece dissipates and his eyes adjust, he could make out his surroundings a bit more. He was in a large bed, clearly seeking to have been made for him, with a nightstand on his right, with a small flask of oil resting on top of it. There was a small chair at the foot of the bed, in which Jon Snow was sitting, reading some book or another. 

“Little Crow.” His voice comes out raspy and weak, barely noticeable, but he couldn't hide from Jon, and his head tilts up, and he stands, closing the book he was reading and laying it on the chair. 

“Tormund.” There’s something off about his voice. It was too calm, too flat. “You've been asleep for a long time. It's midday.” 

At that, Tormund's head shoots up, all traces of grogginess gone. “I should go to the Free Folk,” he says, trying to rise, but he is stopped by a gentle hand on his chest, pushing him down, and it was only then that he realized that he was completely bare. “Peace, Tormund. I've already asked our daughter to handle things in your absence for the day,” he said, and Tormund relaxed. He knew that Minda was more than capable of running things, and Jon knew it too. 

“In fact, I wanted to talk to you. Alone. About Brienne,” Jon says casually, as if discussing the weather, and Tormund stiffens. He opens his mouth, but Jon shushes him before continuing. 

“Ever since you've met her, she's been your whole world. You talk only about her, you stare at her like she's a Goddess, you stumble around Winterfell at night trying to meet her. If she comes too close to us at dinner, you leave me for her, even if we happen to be already talking about something important.” Tormund can feel his face flush, but Jon wasn't done. 

“Do you have any idea how this feels too me, the fear that your husband no longer shares your love? Do you have any idea-” here Jon’s voice drops to a hiss, and Tormund can feel his blood run cold- “what that's done to me? Do you know what I've felt for weeks now? Did you even care about how your actions were seen?!” Jon's voice rises to a shout, a snarl barely audible, and Tormund turns his face to hide his shame into the mattress below. He had never meant to hurt Jon like that. 

He hears footsteps, and feels a strong hand grab his chin and turn him to face Jon’s gaze, and Tormund's breath catches at the tender look in Jon's dark eyes. 

“I want to yell at you. I want to rage, scream, show you exactly how I've felt for months. However, there's a better way to remind you of who you belong to.” His grip tightens, just slightly, and he leans in close, his next words a whisper that brushes over Tormund's ears and makes him shiver. 

“I want to mark you as mine. I want to bury myself in you and make you scream for me.” Tormund lets out a very audible gasp, his body stiffens, and Jon smiles at his visible apprehension. “But I won't, not if you don't want it. If you don't want this, tell me now. If you want this, tell me now.” 

Tormund stares into Jon’s eyes, and he could see the love and sincerity reflected back at him. He takes a breath, steels his nerves, and nods. “I want this. I want you.”

Jon gives a soft smile, and he leans in to capture Tormund's lips in a deep and passionate kiss, a kiss that Tormund finds himself almost unconsciously melting into. He tastes like smoke, like spice and earth, and like the ice, cold and hard, but also like fire, hot and powerful, and he finds himself wanting more. Distantly, he feels Jon’s hands move to cup his face, and Tormund lets out a low moan, immediately allowing Jon’s tongue access into his mouth to poke around, and Tormund's eyes slip closed, and he lets himself drift in the hands of his Little Crow. 

Jon releases him, and Tormund finds himself leaning forward, chasing the taste of Jon on his lips, but Jon places a palm over his heart, feeling the organ running and running and never stopping, and pushes him back onto the bed. He leans over Tormund, and he could feel Jon taking his hand, pulling it up and curling it around a small red handkerchief, a wolf’s head embroidered onto a corner. 

He leans down to whisper into Tormund's ear, “If you want this to stop, at any time, you grab onto this, and everything stops, no questions asked. I'll stop what I'm doing and I'll take care of whatever you need. Do you understand?” His voice was low and husky with arousal, yet smooth as silk, and Tormund feels his head grow fuzzy with his voice. He feels Jon grab his face, and he gasps at the rough treatment. “I said, do you understand me?” Jon's voice was now rough and harsh, and, in some distant corner of his mind, Tormund marvels at how easily Jon was able to change his voice, like he was born to deceive and manipulate, and he gasps and moans. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Jon nods and smiles. “Good,” he said, and pulls the handkerchief from the redhead’s hand, placing it next to his right shoulder while making Tormund move his head to ensure that he could see exactly where it was. When he’s satisfied that the Wildling has seen the handkerchief, he moves off of the bed to stand above Tormund, maintaining unblinking eye contact with the Wildling as he moves his hands to remove his fur coat and undershirt, slowly, so very agonizingly slowly, and Tormund couldn't tear his eyes away from the muscles on his chest that emerge with every inch of clothing removed.

When Jon finishes undressing his torso, leaving his breeches off, he stands over his lover and flexes, showing off the many scars he'd accumulated in his life, and Tormund notices his cock twitch, and feels a little wet drop on his pelvis. Jon notices too, and he raises his left eyebrow and smirks at his desperation. “Like what you see?” The question is taunting, yet somehow also submissive, pleading for the praise he received so rarely, and Tormund feels his heart break into two at that, and he nodded eagerly, bobbing his head up and down.

Jon saunters over to the side of the bed, still not removing his trousers, and stops by Tormund's head.

Jon grabs Tormund's hands, and move them to rest over the very prominent bulge in his trousers. When he had fixed them in place, he stills them, and stares at the Wildling, clearly demanding Tormund to finish undressing him, and Tormund immediately complies, untying the laces and pushing his trousers down to reveal Jon’s cock. It was longer than average, yet still shorter than Tormund's, and thick, and the head gleamed an angry red, and it wasn't even fully hard yet. 

Tormund doesn't realize he was drooling until he felt saliva running down his chin, and he gripped the cock in front of him and leaned in close, trying to get his lips around it, but he feels Jon’s hands fist themselves in his hair and pull him roughly away from his cock. Tormund can feel a whine building in his throat, and he swallows it down, instead looking up to meet Jon’s eyes. 

Jon smiles down at him. “What do you want to do? You have to ask me for it.” 

Tormund stares up into the darkness in his husband's eyes, and tries to move his head closer, simply to share the body heat radiating off of Jon like a furnace. He can feel the grip in his hair tighten to the point of painfulness, and he can feel Jon’s eyes narrow and his gaze harden as he stares down at the man at his feet. 

Tormund looks up, and he feels something in him break and melt, and he caves in. “Please, I want to suck your cock.”

Jon tilts his head, much like how Ghost tilts his head when he wants something. “Please what?”

Tormund finally lets that whine escape from behind his lips, and it felt like his very soul had escaped with it, leaving him light and airy and drifting. “Please, little-”

Jon shakes his head, and lightly moves his hand to gently slap Tormund's cheek to grab his attention. “No. You address me as ‘my king,’ or ‘your grace.’ Try again.”

Tormund's next words were a low whisper, as if worried he'd be seen kneeling to a king. “Please, your-” Jon's grip tightens, almost imperceptibly, and Tormund's breath catches. “Please, your grace.”

Jon’s lips curve into a smirk, and his grip in Tormund's hair relaxes. “Well, when you put it like that…” he drawls, and lays back on the bed, gently but firmly pulling Tormund down off the bed to rest between his spread legs, a clear command, and one that Tormund was all too happy to follow. 

Tormund places his hands on Jon’s thighs to steady himself and leaned in to nose at Jon’s ballsack. He spends a few seconds just taking in the musk of his crow, more spice and earth and ale, as well as something he couldn’t identify. It smelled foreign, and yet, as he moved up to lick at the hardening length of Jon’s cock, it smelled like something he’s known all his life. 

He moves up to lap at the head of Jon’s cock, which was leaking precome already, and he licks at that too, losing himself in the salty sweet taste that filled his mouth. 

Jon let out a huff of breath, and Tormund can sense that Jon wanted something specific from him, so he leans back slightly, before snapping his head forward to take Jon’s length into his mouth, sucking and moaning and swallowing in his attempts to provoke a reaction. 

He can just barely make out Jon’s tiny groans and grunts, and he smiles against the cock in his mouth. His crow was too easy to rile up. He hollows out his cheeks, and does something that he remembered Jon doing when they had last lain together -too long ago, he thought with a pang of guilt. He swallows. 

The reaction was instantaneous. Jon’s hands fly to his hair and shove him down further into his cock, moaning in that deep and lustful voice of his that never failed to drive Tormund mad. Tormund gags and chokes a little as he’s forced to take more of the long length, now fully hard, into his mouth, and he felt the head press against the back of his throat, and it ached. It aches like nothing else had ever ached, and he briefly considers grabbing the handkerchief, if only to catch his breath. But Jon, hearing his discomfort, pulls Tormund off of his cock and lets him come up for air. 

Tormund gasps in the blessed air of their quarters, made warm by the roaring fire that was probably tended to by Jon or by one of the servants. He can feel Jon staring at him with a fierce hunger in his eyes, and he could tell why his men called him the White Wolf. 

He feels a hand reach under his chin, and gently pull him up to stare his beloved in the face. He knows how he looked: flushed red, lips swollen and stretched around a phantom length, eyes watery from lack of air, and he shivers. Jon leaned in and plants a sweet yet chaste kiss to Tormund’s lips before pulling back and getting off the bed to stand behind the Wildling. 

“On the bed. Hands and knees.” The command is rough, sharp and grating around the edges, dragging across the air like a blade through wood, and Tormund can feel a low heat swoop through his gut at the unabashed desire in Jon’s voice. Not wanting to disappoint, he quickly does as he is told, positioning himself on the bed as Jon wanted him, pushing down the beast inside him that screamed at him, that told him that what he was doing was degrading, that it was shameful to his family, that he didn’t kneel for anyone, and certainly not a crow, even a former one. He pushes it all down when he feels Jon run a soothing hand over his back, tracing and running along the bumps and ridges and scars in the flesh, leaning down to press his lips to each and every scar he came across, occasionally stopping to point out some specific scars. 

“I gave you this one.” That was directed at a slash mark that ran across the whole of his back. “The night you attacked the wall. It was a dagger.”

“And I gave you this.” A tiny little circle in his shoulder. “I was angry at you for something you said, and it escalated from there. 

“All of these” -that’s directed at multiple white lines that marred his skin. “These were when you held me down and rocked into me that first time, leaving your mark on me, in me. I felt I had to reciprocate in kind.” Jon presses a kiss into his back, and Tormund mewls.

“I tell you this so you remember. All of these will last, because I say they will, and if they don’t, I’ll leave new ones, because, as I belong to you, you belong to me. Your body is mine as mine is yours, and you will never forget that. I will not let you. I’ll never let you forget that, out of all the men and women we’ve met in the world, you chose me, and I chose you.” He leans in close, to whisper into Tormund’s ear. “I'll never forget how you look at me, the love and reverence and worship so evident in your gaze, it makes me fall in love with you all over again,” he says, and Tormund is suddenly grateful he wasn't standing, because he's sure he would've fallen over at those words. 

“I'm yours, my king,” he somehow rasps out, and he feels Jon chuckle against his arse -wait, when did he move his mouth all the way there?- “I know you are, my love. You've always been mine, from the moment I knelt to you you've been mine. And I've been yours from the same time. We’re meant for each other.” He runs his hands over Tormund's arse, periodically pausing to grab a fistful of flesh and squeeze approvingly, and Tormund whines and moans every time he does so, all traces of pride and shame forgotten, broken under the weight of Jon’s sincerity and feather-sweet caresses. 

“You know, when I woke up on that table in Castle Black, I didn't know why. I didn't know why I had lived, while so many others had not. Why had I lived, when Ygritte hadn't, or when my brother and father hadn't? Why was I given that second chance?” A heavy pause filled the air, and Jon speaks again. 

“And then I saw you outside. I saw the shock and grief on your face, and I saw the genuine joy I hadn't seen on you before or since. I felt your strong arms around me, holding me tight, protecting me from the world that sought to tear us apart, and I knew, in that moment, why the Gods brought me back.” He pauses, and Tormund can feel something wet drop onto his back. 

“It was you, Tormund. It was your grief and sorrow that brought me back. The Gods know the sorrow of those who live and love someone more than they love themselves, and sometimes they are merciful. The Gods brought me back for you, and, as I felt you around me, I knew there was nowhere else I’d rather be than in your arms. I knew that I was where I belonged, and I'm grateful that the Gods gave me this second chance at life, that I may spend it with you until we both fall to death.” Jon’s crying as he speaks, Tormund knows, and so is he: a stream of thick and heavy water forces itself from his eyes, and he lets out a choked and broken sob. Distantly, as though from another realm, he feels Jon push to turn him over, and, when he's on his back, Jon captures him in another long kiss, no less passionate than the first, and Tormund responds in kind, burying his hands inside Jon’s dark curls and keeping him against his mouth. This time, Jon doesn't move his hands away. 

When Jon pulls back, smiling softly at Tormund's whine of distress, he reaches for the oil, but then thinks better of it, and instead leans in to spread out Tormund's legs until he's utterly exposed for him. 

Tormund whines as his hole is exposed, and Jon rubs his thighs in comfort as he leans in. “Relax,” is all he says before descending onto the Wildling’s entrance and dragging his tongue over the surface. Tormund's head snaps back, and he moans, a low, desperate thing he's only ever heard Jon give in the past, when he's done the same thing. Jon's tongue is warm and wet, and he knows it'd feel so good inside him. But Jon never pushes it inside, instead teasingly dragging it along the rim, pressing against the entrance, and Tormund whines in frustration and tries to shove his hips forward, hoping that Jon will take mercy on him. 

Jon pulled back, and Tormund tossed his head back and cried in frustration. “Is there something you want, love?” The bastard. He knows exactly what the redhead wants, can see it in his pleading gaze. Tormund pants and tries to catch his breath. 

“Please, please, Jo-” Jon smacks a globe of his arse, and Tormund hollers at the contact. “Please, my king, I need your tongue in me. I need you like I've never needed anything before.” 

Jon runs his hand over the arse he'd smacked, and Tormund whimpers at the ache. “Good boy, such a good boy,” he coos approvingly, and Tormund melts a little more into putty at the pet name. “Don't cum,” he says as he lowers himself to the Wildling's hole and finally, finally presses his tongue inside. 

Tormund gasped and moaned. Jon's tongue was a thick and wet thing inside him, and it aches, but all pain was forgotten at the feel of the appendage inside him lapping at his walls and digging deeper. He can see Jon staring at him as he's eaten out, and the darkness in his eyes is now hard as flint. He presses his tongue in deeper, and, with that and the way Jon looks at him, Tormund can no longer ignore the need to cum. His head falls back, and he sees white as his leaking cock spurts out long ribbons of white cum all over his hairy chest, falling over his nipples, a few drops even hitting his chin. Tormund might have shouted or moaned. He can't remember. 

It's only when the white fades from his gaze and his mind clear that he realizes what he's done. Jon's moved away from his hole, and is now staring down at the man who is now cowering beneath him. 

Jon sighs, and this scares Tormund more. “What happened, love? You were doing so well.” Tormund whines, but he's not given a chance to respond. “I know you didn't mean it, but you disobeyed my instructions, and boys who can't follow orders need punishment, don't they?” Tormund's eyes widen, and he shakes his head, but Jon ignores him. “Come here. Lie over my lap, arse up.” The tone of command is back in his voice, and Tormund shudders, before Jon smacks his thigh and Tormund jolts at the harsh sound. “Now, or I'll make your punishment worse,” is all he says, and Tormund instantly crawls over to rest over Jon’s lap, holding his breath, waiting 

He feels Jon rub the cheek of his arse that he hadn't yet slapped before, and Jon says, “I think ten is enough, do you?” Tormund is quiet, trying to process what's happening. Jon isn't impressed, and he grabs a fistful of flesh cruelly, forcing Tormund's attention. “I said, do you think ten is enough,” he growls out, and Tormund dissolves into a litany of “yes, yes my king, yes.” Jon sighs, and lets go. “I'm going to punish you, and you're going to count. I want to hear your counting, clear as day.”

Jon runs his hands all over his back again, pointedly avoiding his arse, and Tormund waits, unable to do anything else. 

The first strike is sharp, laid against the middle of his arse, and Tormund shouts, jolts. His soft cock twitches and bobs, and a drop of liquid escapes the tip. He lays there, trying to catch his breath, and grits out a breathless “one.”

The next one is just as sharp, over his left arse cheek, and it hurts more somehow. Tormund moans, and gives a high “two”

This continues, hand after hand laid on his arse, and Tormund crying out and counting, just like Jon wanted. By the tenth smack, Tormund is crying openly, and barely manages to choke out a “ten.” It hurts, everything hurts, and he wants more. He wants Jon to be rough with him, to use him as he's used Jon before. 

He feels Jon pull him up to sit in his lap, soothing his hiss of pain with a kiss, and takes the sobbing giant into his arms, muttering, “shhhh, it's all over now. You did such a good job for me. You were so good for me, letting yourself take that punishment. I'm so proud of you, love,” and Tormund snuggle closer into Jon’s chest, letting himself be held and comforted, relishing every single kiss he's given as comfort. He could stay like this forever, he thinks, and he'd be content. 

Jon runs his hands over his arms as he leans in to whisper into Tormund's ear. “I'm going to stretch you open now. I'm going to spread you wide open for my cock, and I don't want you to come. If you feel you're going to, I want you to tell me. Can you do that for me? Can you be good for me?” Tormund nods and says, “yes, yes, I will.” Jon smiles and helps Tormund off of his lap and onto the bed, face down and arse up.

He hears Jon reaching behind him to grab the oil off the nightstand behind him, and he knows Jon is oiling up his fingers. When the first finger presses against his hole, he tenses at the contact, and Jon is there to sooth him. “Deep breaths, love. Relax yourself for me,” he mutters, before finally pushing his finger into Tormund's heat. 

Tormund grunts. It aches, it feels strange, but he wants more, and so he pushes back against Jon, silently begging for another. 

Jon laughs, a high and breathless laugh, and slides in another oiled finger, and Tormund gasps at the stretch. It hurts now, he's never had anything in there, and he groans and pushes back against Jon. 

Jon chuckles at the the wanton giant before him. “You're so greedy for me, my boy. You must have wanted this for a while now,” he says, and Tormund sighs. Jon continues. “Do you imagine my fingers filling you up, just like this? Do you think about me holding you down and using you like a whore? Do you come to these fantasies, ruining your furs with seed?”

Tormund gasps. It's too much, he can't take it. He wails when Jon adds a third finger, and all his fingers are swirling around his walls, pressing themselves everywhere but his prostate, pointedly ignoring the sweet spot he owns, and Tormund whines and moans and cries, anything to get Jon to be kind to him. 

Jon chuckles again. “You’re such a whore, you know that? Bending over so willingly for a man to take you, for a man to fill you with his seed and put a child in you. You moan so pretty, and your arse feels incredible, squeezing tight around me, you could be a whore, if you wanted.” Tormund moans and clenches around Jon’s fingers at that. “But you won't be. You won't be anyone else's whore but mine. You bend over for nobody but me, you spread yourself for nobody but me, you take nobody's cock but mine. I'm the only one who will ever see this side of you, the side that wants so desperately to kneel and be cared for, the side that wants to take orders, rather than give them.”

Tormund mewls at that. He's so close to coming, but Jon pulls out before the need becomes too great, and Tormund's hole is left clenching around nothing. He moans, searching for something to fill him again. 

Jon laughs at how his hole flutters and clenches around phantom fingers. “You look so desperate for me. Should I have a wooden cock made, just for you? I'd leave it inside you, you wouldn't be allowed to remove it without my permission. I'd fill you up with my seed and plug you up with it, so that nothing may drip out when we're done. You'd have to pretend that you're able to work and to think, only to have your mind go blank when it drags in you at just the right angle, a constant reminder of your obedience.”

Tormund moans in anticipation, unable to hide how much he likes the idea, and Jon smiles. “Does the idea excite you? Then I guess I'll have to get that made then, just for you.”

He leans over Tormund, and the head of his cock brushes against Tormund's stretched hole. The redhead tenses, and he feels Jon still where he is, bending down to nose over his back. 

“Ready?” It's barely even a whisper, but he hears it, and he nods. He feels Jon’s lips curving into a smile against his skin, and then he pushes into his hole. 

If three fingers hurt inside him, Jon’s cock burns his raw and tender walls. It felt like a fire was forcing its way into his body, and he cries out, unable to help himself. Distantly, as through hearing him from the other side of the Wall, he hears Jon’s voice, a low and heady murmur talking him through the stretch and burn, and he uses that voice that he can barely hear to ground his floating soul. The bear inside him stills its angry and prideful roaring, beaten into submission by the dominant wolf fucking into him, reaching places inside him he never knew existed.

He doesn't notice how far Jon's fucked into him until he feels Jon's hips brush against his red and sore arse, and he hisses at the sudden pain. Jon is praising him, telling him how well he's doing, how pretty he is like this, spread out and needy, and he soaks up all the praise like he needs it to live. 

Jon starts to move. Slowly at first, barely pulling out before pushing back in, huffing out little breaths with every thrust. The cock in Tormund barely moves, lest it drag against his prostate, and he moans quietly, hoping that Jon will start to move more. 

As if hearing his silent plea, Jon pulls out further, further, all the way out. But alas, he doesn't push back in, instead remaining there, watching Tormund's hole clench around nothing again, listening to Tormund gasp and plead and watching him thrust backwards, hoping to convince Jon to fuck him again. 

“Is there something you want?” He's smiling, Tormund could tell, a cocky and arrogant smirk plastered on his face, and he growls, pushes back harder. “You know what I want.”

Jon throws his head back and laughs, a full and deep laugh that warms Tormund’s heart. “Of course I do. I always know. I just like hearing you beg, so beg for me.”

Tormund gasps and shudders. In any other case, his pride would have made him keep silent, maybe lunge for Jon and pin him on the floor. But his pride was long gone by now, replaced by a raw, primitive need. “Please, your grace. Please fuck me,” he whines. 

Jon looks down at the man in front of him, and decides that he can no longer wait to give Tormund what he wants. “Of course, love,” he promises, before slamming back in until he's balls deep within his husband. 

Tormund cries out at the feel of Jon's cock forcing its way through his hole, but he's not given any time to adjust before Jon pulled back and slammed back in, and pulled out to slam in, again, and again. 

Tormund is panting heavily. His prostate was continuously being grazed, just enough for him to feel it, but never directly hit. Jon was leaning just over Tormund's sweat-slick back, breathing in the smell of Tormund, fire and mud and blood, and trying to remain in control. 

Tormund jolts in place as Jon changes the angle of his thrusts so that he directly hit Tormund's prostate with every thrust. With enough thrusts, Tormund was shaking and seeing stars explode in his vision, and he barely registers Jon pressing his lips to Tormund's neck and sucking a bruise into the pale skin. 

“I did this to you,” Jon pants out. “Whenever you see Brienne, I want you to remember this. Remember my cock forcing you open, remember my touch driving you mad, remember our rings.” Somehow, through the fuck-induced haze, Tormund manages to summon enough cognitive thought to look down at his left hand, where the wedding ring that Jon had given him so long ago, made from the bones of Crows, rested on his ring finger. 

“Remember that we bound ourselves to one another, and I will now mark you, as you have marked me.” Jon was getting close, he could tell. Tormund gasps and moans and cries as his prostate was abused again and again. 

And then Jon wraps his hand around Tormund's cock and starts to feverishly stroke, coaxing more cries from the redhead's mouth. 

“Come for me,” Jon chokes out, and -oh, Tormund would- “Come for me now, while I fill you up, just for my eyes-”

With a choked shout, Tormund spends himself into the sheets, losing himself to the mindless bliss that had been encroaching upon his vision all morning. The last thing he feels before darkness takes him is Jon's cock spurting deep inside him, filling him with a wet heat that only served to push him into sleep. 

When Tormund comes to again, he’s faceup on the bed, still naked. Jon is kneeling between his legs, dabbing at his hole with a wet cloth, wiping away the cum he can feel leaking from his hole. 

When Jon sees that Tormund is awake, he sets down the cloth and pulls himself up to pull Tormund into a hug, stroking his red hair and whispering to him about how good he was. 

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Jon is concerned, and Tormund gives a shaky smile. “I will say that I've never felt this tired after a good long fuck Little Crow.” It's not an answer, not fully, but Jon smiles at that and presses a kiss to Tormund's forehead. 

Jon checks for the handkerchief, but he can't find it anywhere on the bed. After long searching, he finds it lying on the floor next to the bed, likely having been knocked off by a flailing limb. 

He returns to Tormund and holds him closer. “Promise me you won't go after Brienne again?”

Tormund nods, a sensitive question burning in his mind. Jon smiles in relief at Tormund’s nod of assent, but his gaze narrows when he sees Tormund's lowered eyes and quivering lips. “Is something wrong?”

Tormund shakes his head. “No, love, nothing's wrong. It's just…” He trails off, unable to voice his request. 

Thankfully, Jon was always good at reading him, and he guesses at Tormund's thoughts. “You want to do this again in the future?”

Tormund nods, as though ashamed of his need now that the bliss of being dominated is through. 

Strong hands cup his cheeks and pull his gaze up to meet Jon's eyes, the darkness in them now warm and safe. “Tormund, all you have to do is ask, and I'll give you whatever you need.”

Tormund leans in close to kiss Jon, and Jon melts into it, just slightly. “I love you, Little Crow.”

Jon smiles against his lips before pulling back. “I love you too, Giantsbane. Stay and sleep with me.”

Within minutes, Tormund was asleep, lulled to the comfort of sleep by the familiar and rhythmic heartbeat of his husband

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written in a year, so mistakes may be abound. Comments and critiques are always appreciated.


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